An hour passed away before the general came in, spent, on the
part of his young guest, in no very favourable consideration of his
character. “This lengthened absence, these solitary rambles,
did not speak a mind at ease, or a conscience void of
reproach.” At length he appeared; and, whatever might have
been the gloom of his meditations, he could still smile with them.
Miss Tilney, understanding in part her friend’s curiosity to
see the house, soon revived the subject; and her father being,
contrary to Catherine’s expectations, unprovided with any
pretence for further delay, beyond that of stopping five minutes to
order refreshments to be in the room by their return, was at last
ready to escort them.

They set forward; and, with a grandeur of air, a dignified step,
which caught the eye, but could not shake the doubts of the
well–read Catherine, he led the way across the hall, through
the common drawing–room and one useless antechamber, into a
room magnificent both in size and furniture — the real
drawing–room, used only with company of consequence. It was
very noble — very grand — very charming! — was
all that Catherine had to say, for her indiscriminating eye
scarcely discerned the colour of the satin; and all minuteness of
praise, all praise that had much meaning, was supplied by the
general: the costliness or elegance of any room’s
fitting–up could be nothing to her; she cared for no
furniture of a more modern date than the fifteenth century. When
the general had satisfied his own curiosity, in a close examination
of every well–known ornament, they proceeded into the
library, an apartment, in its way, of equal magnificence,
exhibiting a collection of books, on which an humble man might have
looked with pride. Catherine heard, admired, and wondered with more
genuine feeling than before — gathered all that she could
from this storehouse of knowledge, by running over the titles of
half a shelf, and was ready to proceed. But suites of apartments
did not spring up with her wishes. Large as was the building, she
had already visited the greatest part; though, on being told that,
with the addition of the kitchen, the six or seven rooms she had
now seen surrounded three sides of the court, she could scarcely
believe it, or overcome the suspicion of there being many chambers
secreted. It was some relief, however, that they were to return to
the rooms in common use, by passing through a few of less
importance, looking into the court, which, with occasional
passages, not wholly unintricate, connected the different sides;
and she was further soothed in her progress by being told that she
was treading what had once been a cloister, having traces of cells
pointed out, and observing several doors that were neither opened
nor explained to her — by finding herself successively in a
billiard–room, and in the general’s private apartment,
without comprehending their connection, or being able to turn
aright when she left them; and lastly, by passing through a dark
little room, owning Henry’s authority, and strewed with his
litter of books, guns, and greatcoats.

From the dining–room, of which, though already seen, and
always to be seen at five o’clock, the general could not
forgo the pleasure of pacing out the length, for the more certain
information of Miss Morland, as to what she neither doubted nor
cared for, they proceeded by quick communication to the kitchen
— the ancient kitchen of the convent, rich in the massy walls
and smoke of former days, and in the stoves and hot closets of the
present. The general’s improving hand had not loitered here:
every modern invention to facilitate the labour of the cooks had
been adopted within this, their spacious theatre; and, when the
genius of others had failed, his own had often produced the
perfection wanted. His endowments of this spot alone might at any
time have placed him high among the benefactors of the convent.

With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the
abbey; the fourth side of the quadrangle having, on account of its
decaying state, been removed by the general’s father, and the
present erected in its place. All that was venerable ceased here.
The new building was not only new, but declared itself to be so;
intended only for offices, and enclosed behind by
stable–yards, no uniformity of architecture had been thought
necessary. Catherine could have raved at the hand which had swept
away what must have been beyond the value of all the rest, for the
purposes of mere domestic economy; and would willingly have been
spared the mortification of a walk through scenes so fallen, had
the general allowed it; but if he had a vanity, it was in the
arrangement of his offices; and as he was convinced that, to a mind
like Miss Morland’s, a view of the accommodations and
comforts, by which the labours of her inferiors were softened, must
always be gratifying, he should make no apology for leading her on.
They took a slight survey of all; and Catherine was impressed,
beyond her expectation, by their multiplicity and their
convenience. The purposes for which a few shapeless pantries and a
comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at Fullerton, were here
carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and roomy. The
number of servants continually appearing did not strike her less
than the number of their offices. Wherever they went, some pattened
girl stopped to curtsy, or some footman in dishabille sneaked off.
Yet this was an abbey! How inexpressibly different in these
domestic arrangements from such as she had read about — from
abbeys and castles, in which, though certainly larger than
Northanger, all the dirty work of the house was to be done by two
pair of female hands at the utmost. How they could get through it
all had often amazed Mrs. Allen; and, when Catherine saw what was
necessary here, she began to be amazed herself.

They returned to the hall, that the chief staircase might be
ascended, and the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich carving
might be pointed out: having gained the top, they turned in an
opposite direction from the gallery in which her room lay, and
shortly entered one on the same plan, but superior in length and
breadth. She was here shown successively into three large
bed–chambers, with their dressing–rooms, most
completely and handsomely fitted up; everything that money and
taste could do, to give comfort and elegance to apartments, had
been bestowed on these; and, being furnished within the last five
years, they were perfect in all that would be generally pleasing,
and wanting in all that could give pleasure to Catherine. As they
were surveying the last, the general, after slightly naming a few
of the distinguished characters by whom they had at times been
honoured, turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine, and
ventured to hope that henceforward some of their earliest tenants
might be “our friends from Fullerton.” She felt the
unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility of
thinking well of a man so kindly disposed towards herself, and so
full of civility to all her family.

The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney,
advancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the
point of doing the same by the first door to the left, in another
long reach of gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called
her hastily, and, as Catherine thought, rather angrily back,
demanding whether she were going? — And what was there more
to be seen? — Had not Miss Morland already seen all that
could be worth her notice? — And did she not suppose her
friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much exercise?
Miss Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were closed
upon the mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in a momentary
glance beyond them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and
symptoms of a winding staircase, believed herself at last within
the reach of something worth her notice; and felt, as she
unwillingly paced back the gallery, that she would rather be
allowed to examine that end of the house than see all the finery of
all the rest. The general’s evident desire of preventing such
an examination was an additional stimulant. Something was certainly
to be concealed; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or
twice, could not mislead her here; and what that something was, a
short sentence of Miss Tilney’s, as they followed the general
at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out: “I was
going to take you into what was my mother’s room — the
room in which she died — “ were all her words; but few
as they were, they conveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It
was no wonder that the general should shrink from the sight of such
objects as that room must contain; a room in all probability never
entered by him since the dreadful scene had passed, which released
his suffering wife, and left him to the stings of conscience.

She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish
of being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side
of the house; and Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever
they should have a convenient hour. Catherine understood her: the
general must be watched from home, before that room could be
entered. “It remains as it was, I suppose?” said she,
in a tone of feeling.

“Yes, entirely.”

“And how long ago may it be that your mother
died?”

“She has been dead these nine years.” And nine
years, Catherine knew, was a trifle of time, compared with what
generally elapsed after the death of an injured wife, before her
room was put to rights.

“You were with her, I suppose, to the last?”

“No,” said Miss Tilney, sighing; “I was
unfortunately from home. Her illness was sudden and short; and,
before I arrived it was all over.”

Catherine’s blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions
which naturally sprang from these words. Could it be possible?
Could Henry’s father — ? And yet how many were the
examples to justify even the blackest suspicions! And, when she saw
him in the evening, while she worked with her friend, slowly pacing
the drawing–room for an hour together in silent
thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt
secure from all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and
attitude of a Montoni! What could more plainly speak the gloomy
workings of a mind not wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in
its fearful review of past scenes of guilt? Unhappy man! And the
anxiousness of her spirits directed her eyes towards his figure so
repeatedly, as to catch Miss Tilney’s notice. “My
father,” she whispered, “often walks about the room in
this way; it is nothing unusual.”

“So much the worse!” thought Catherine; such
ill–timed exercise was of a piece with the strange
unseasonableness of his morning walks, and boded nothing good.

After an evening, the little variety and seeming length of which
made her peculiarly sensible of Henry’s importance among
them, she was heartily glad to be dismissed; though it was a look
from the general not designed for her observation which sent his
daughter to the bell. When the butler would have lit his
master’s candle, however, he was forbidden. The latter was
not going to retire. “I have many pamphlets to finish,”
said he to Catherine, “before I can close my eyes, and
perhaps may be poring over the affairs of the nation for hours
after you are asleep. Can either of us be more meetly employed? My
eyes will be blinding for the good of others, and yours preparing
by rest for future mischief.”

But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent
compliment, could win Catherine from thinking that some very
different object must occasion so serious a delay of proper repose.
To be kept up for hours, after the family were in bed, by stupid
pamphlets was not very likely. There must be some deeper cause:
something was to be done which could be done only while the
household slept; and the probability that Mrs. Tilney yet lived,
shut up for causes unknown, and receiving from the pitiless hands
of her husband a nightly supply of coarse food, was the conclusion
which necessarily followed. Shocking as was the idea, it was at
least better than a death unfairly hastened, as, in the natural
course of things, she must ere long be released. The suddenness of
her reputed illness, the absence of her daughter, and probably of
her other children, at the time — all favoured the
supposition of her imprisonment. Its origin — jealousy
perhaps, or wanton cruelty — was yet to be unravelled.

In revolving these matters, while she undressed, it suddenly
struck her as not unlikely that she might that morning have passed
near the very spot of this unfortunate woman’s confinement
— might have been within a few paces of the cell in which she
languished out her days; for what part of the abbey could be more
fitted for the purpose than that which yet bore the traces of
monastic division? In the high–arched passage, paved with
stone, which already she had trodden with peculiar awe, she well
remembered the doors of which the general had given no account. To
what might not those doors lead? In support of the plausibility of
this conjecture, it further occurred to her that the forbidden
gallery, in which lay the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs.
Tilney, must be, as certainly as her memory could guide her,
exactly over this suspected range of cells, and the staircase by
the side of those apartments of which she had caught a transient
glimpse, communicating by some secret means with those cells, might
well have favoured the barbarous proceedings of her husband. Down
that staircase she had perhaps been conveyed in a state of
well–prepared insensibility!

Catherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own surmises,
and sometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far; but they
were supported by such appearances as made their dismissal
impossible.

The side of the quadrangle, in which she supposed the guilty
scene to be acting, being, according to her belief, just opposite
her own, it struck her that, if judiciously watched, some rays of
light from the general’s lamp might glimmer through the lower
windows, as he passed to the prison of his wife; and, twice before
she stepped into bed, she stole gently from her room to the
corresponding window in the gallery, to see if it appeared; but all
abroad was dark, and it must yet be too early. The various
ascending noises convinced her that the servants must still be up.
Till midnight, she supposed it would be in vain to watch; but then,
when the clock had struck twelve, and all was quiet, she would, if
not quite appalled by darkness, steal out and look once more. The
clock struck twelve — and Catherine had been half an hour
asleep.